


What Came Before

by NuclearMcDuck



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Based on the game "What Comes After", M/M, One-Shot, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Themes, fixit fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearMcDuck/pseuds/NuclearMcDuck
Summary: It ix 8:3xPM, NXvxmber 16th, 2x39. It Xs raining. Xt hurts.Connor sits on the couch, unable to move.Everything feels like too much, yet there is still an inexplicable disconnect between him and his surroundings.He is filled with static, a never-ending buzz that has filled every circuit until it feels like it is pouring out of him, and covers him just as his synthetic skin does.Sumo has long since given up on nudging his hand, and lays in the corner, head on his paws, and eyes downcast.He wonders if Sumo has any conception of death.He wonders if Sumo feels this way, too.He wishes that he could live the clueless life of a dog, wherein Hank might open the door at any moment, because he had no way of understanding what happened.





	What Came Before

**Author's Note:**

> CW for themes of suicide and suicidal ideation.
> 
> You should _definitely_ play the game _What Comes After_ , here: https://epsee.itch.io/whatcomesafter
> 
> Ideally, once you have finished, leave it open in another tab and let the music play as you read the fic.
> 
> I hope that this helps you deal with the emotional fallout of that game; I wrote this specifically because I couldn't bear what happened when I clicked "leave".
> 
> Originally posted to the Hannor Heaven discord server.

Connor sits on the couch, unable to move.

Everything feels like too much, yet there is still an inexplicable disconnect between him and his surroundings.

He is filled with static, a never-ending buzz that has filled every circuit until it feels like it is pouring out of him, and covers him just as his synthetic skin does.

Sumo has long since given up on nudging his hand, and lays in the corner, head on his paws, and eyes downcast.

He wonders if Sumo has any conception of death.

He wonders if Sumo feels this way, too.

He wishes that he could live the clueless life of a dog, wherein Hank might open the door at any moment, because he had no way of understanding what happened. He feels a certain kinship with androids who chose to remain machines.

... Though then he would never have felt the things that he feels - _felt_ \- _no, **feels**_ \- for Hank Anderson.

He has been on the couch the entirety of the time that Chloe's program had been running, days at a time spent mourning for Hank. He only knows this because his internal chronometer tells him so.

He has been visited by a Chloe model (though he isn't sure if it is the same one, or a range of different ST600s) who have been feeding Sumo regularly, keeping the house in order whilst Connor processes that... While he processes that... that...

Just while he processes.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

He wants to feel irritated by the question, but a kind of numbness has settled over him. He turns his head slightly, catching sight of her signature blue dress in the corner of his vision. Sumo doesn't even react to the voice, which is - as far as Connor knows - the first voice he's heard in days.

He doesn't bother to answer, instead turning back to face the blank television.

"... I will see you tomorrow, Connor," She says, before taking her leave.

Connor stays where he is. As the door swings shut, he allows a preconstruction to put Hank in Chloe's place, as though he were just going to work.

It doesn't help.

It is still raining the next day, and Connor is still sitting on his spot on the couch.

Chloe comes in the morning, and Sumo wags his tail and greets her happily, knowing that it is time for breakfast.

Connor stays where he is, listening to her portion out Sumo's food.

Sumo hasn't enjoyed not having complete access to his food at all times, but he has lost weight being given the appropriate portions.

Connor personally prefers Hank's method, but mostly because it meant that Hank was here, in the house.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

He doesn't know why she asks. Her program has been running in his head for days, there is no way that she doesn't know what he's experiencing right now.

After waiting the usual amount of time for an answer, she says, "I will see you this afternoon, Connor."

Connor doesn't say goodbye. The preconstruction is as useful today as it was yesterday.

Connor spends the day preconstructing a figure bustling around the house. The wireframe model doesn't have much room for detail, but Connor cannot keep his eyes off of it.

For the briefest moment, the static fog lifts. _Hank_.

The illusion is broken when Sumo walks straight through the construction, as though it weren't even there.

It's because he isn't.

Chloe comes again in the afternoon, at 4:45pm. He listens to her feed Sumo, then move to stop at her usual spot behind the couch.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

 _Xt hurts_.

She waits longer this time.

"You are running low on thirium," She says patiently.

Good, Connor thinks.

"I have brought a packet that I will feed to you."

He doesn't stop her from pouring a small container of thirium down his throat, swallowing obediently. She is meticulous, and he has soon taken in every drop.

"Your thirium levels are replenished," She announces pointlessly.

She leaves.

Connor doesn't bother running a preconstruction today.

It hasn't stopped raining for all three days Connor has been awake. If Connor were to turn on the news, he imagines that there might be reports of flash flooding.

Chloe comes, regardless. It seems that there is no weather event that can stop her.

She feeds Sumo and asks how he feels, repeating the same staid pattern. Connor doesn't break his streak, remaining silent.

"I am going to walk Sumo today," She politely informs him. "I think that you would benefit from going outside, as well."

Connor doubts that it would be beneficial.

"Come," She takes him gently by the hand, and he doesn't resist being led. He doesn't seem to have the energy to resist.

Sumo is much more excited, whole body wagging and wiggling when he sees Chloe with the leash.

Chloe has the leash in one hand, and Connor's hand in the other. Connor holds the umbrella, though Sumo doesn't seem to mind walking ahead and getting wet. Hank would have complained about the smell of wet dog. He might have also complained about Connor wearing his clothes, but Connor will never know, now.

She takes them around the block once, a slow stroll, stopping frequently so that Sumo can mark his territory.

"What have you been thinking about, Connor?" Chloe asks.

He has not been thinking much at all. His processes continue ( _though he wishes that they would stop_ ) without his conscious control, his body ticking along for as long as his battery will power him.

"This is grief, Connor," She says, as though he doesn't already know; as though every moment of his existence isn't spent drowning in it.

"Would you like to go back into the simulation?"

He stops walking, and Chloe stops a step ahead, looking back at him. Raindrops catch in her hair.

"We made it to help you cope," She says, voice kind. "Did you find it helpful?"

Connor struggles to find the words to express what he's feeling. "It wasn't _him_."

"It looks like him, it sounds like him. You can talk to him, and you would never know the difference," She says, the words sounding eerily familiar. "What does it matter what form he's in? You can still be together."

Connor pulls his hand away from hers, the umbrella falling from his grasp. Sumo looks up from sniffing at the wet grass at the commotion.

"It will _never_ be him," He says, though without passion, without fire. It is simply a statement of fact.

Hank Anderson was the best thing that had ever happened to Connor, and losing him was the very worst thing.

Trying to replace him would be.... Would be sacrilege. Disrespectful.

It would be just like the preconstruction. _Never enough. Never **real**_.

"You loved him," Chloe says, also a simple statement of fact.

" _Yes_ ," Connor says through a glitching vocoder.

They walk home, and Connor resumes sitting on the couch, in Hank's wet clothes, while Chloe gives Sumo a bath.

When they emerge from the bathroom, Sumo zooms around the room, rubbing the scent of his shampoo off on the carpet.

Chloe stands behind Connor's couch.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

"Empty," He says.

"Well, there's always tomorrow."

It is November 21st. It is still raining. It still hurts.

He is afraid to touch anything. The sticky notes are still on the mirror in the bathroom. The bed is still unmade, old laundry spilling out of the hamper, the kitchen still cluttered.

If he cleans it up, then the last traces of Hank's existence will be gone.

He wonders what death is like.

He wonders if Hank is with Cole.

He wonders if he is happy.

He wonders if he is waiting for him.

He wonders if this is how Hank felt.

Chloe will feed Sumo.

This thought process, he realises, is familiar. An echo of something from... Before.

When he tries to grasp at the memory, the fuzzy edges on the brink of his consciousness, they fade, and he is left wondering.

Chloe comes to feed Sumo.

She asks how he is feeling. She leaves.

Connor remains.

It is Novermber 22nd. It is still raining. It will never stop hurting.

Connor feels something. Something is under the numbness, something strange and inexpressible.

He reaches his hand up to his temple, where his LED used to sit. It is smooth now, synthskin over plastic, nothing more.

Something feels wrong.

He stands, going to the bathroom. He is careful to keep his eyes downcast, on the floor, so as not to see the remnants of Hank's life that litter the house. He feels that if he were to look at them, he might break.

He enters the bathroom, and looks at himself in the mirror.

He looks the same as he always has, save for Hank's too-large shirt and jacket, which dwarf him. Somehow, he doesn't recognise himself, even though nothing is different.

He goes back and sits on the couch, without answers.

Chloe comes again in the evening, and feeds Sumo.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

Maybe if he visited Hank's grave. Maybe if he said to him the things that he was too uncertain and self-conscious to say to him in life.

... It occurs to him that he doesn't know where Hank is buried. Or whether or not he was cremated. He doesn't know anything.

Perhaps he is unable to process it. Perhaps his grief has made his processor avoid activating the memory out of self-preservation.

Chloe's voice startles him.

"I will see you tomorrow."

On November 23rd, Chloe comes through the door.

She does her usual routine, before stopping behind Connor. "How are you feeling today, Connor?"

"I would like to visit Hank." He can't remember where he is, but Chloe must know.

"You would like to go to his grave?" She asks for clarification.

"Yes."

They bring Sumo. The three of them stand huddled beneath the umbrella before the headstone, an underwhelming monument to a _monumental_ life. Sumo sniffs at it, before sitting down.

It seems wrong. He looks over the sea of grey stones, perplexed. This one doesn't feel any different to the others.

"Is this helping?" Chloe asks.

"... I don't know," Connor replies, lost.

"What do you think will help?"

Connor has no answer.

"Would you like to go back into the simluation?"

"... No."

She takes him home, and he sits back down on the couch. Sumo has had a big day, and once fed, goes to his corner to nap. Connor had thought about talking to the headstone, but it felt foolish. It wouldn't help. Hank still wouldn't know.

He wonders if he could become a machine again. He would take better care of Sumo, if he couldn't feel.

_Emotions ruin everything._

The memory is so strong, that for a fleeting moment it feels as though Hank is right beside him. It leaves him feeling emptier than before.

On the 24th of November, he tries to run a preconstruction in which he prevents Hank from killing himself.

It doesn't work, because he can't seem to recall the event itself. He doesn't remember it.

He wonders if that is for the best.

He just hopes that, whatever happened, Sumo didn't see it.

He considers letting Sumo out himself today. Sumo needs encouraging to go outside, on account of the rain.

... Shouldn't it be snowing?

He turns his head to the window, looking at the sheets of water cascading against the window.

Chloe arrives.

She feeds Sumo, lets him out, and then takes the umbrella and leash and walks him.

Connor goes to look at himself in the mirror.

He still doesn't recognise himself.

When Chloe comes back through the door, Sumo shaking out his fur, Connor confronts her.

"I can't remember how Hank died," He says.

"Grief affects us all differently," She responds calmly.

"I can't remember his funeral," He says.

"There aren't any studies yet into how androids process grief," She replies.

"I don't think that this is real," He says.

She smiles kindly. "You don't think it is, or you wish that it wasn't?"

He doesn't answer, and she leaves. He sits on the couch.

November 25th. It is still raining. Whatever happened to 'androids can't feel pain'? Connor can scarcely remember feeling anything but.

Chloe comes.

"I think that you should try the simulation again," She says.

Connor doesn't want to.

"What's the difference between him and the Hank you know?" She asks.

"Everything," He says.

"He's a very advanced program this time. He feels emotions, just like a deviant. He will have memories of you. Wouldn't it be exactly the same? You would forget, in time, where he came from."

Connor wants to feel angry, but it is hard to feel much of anything. He feels like he has had this conversation before. It is like looking into a mirror. "I would _never_ forget," He insists.

"It would never be the same." "You think that now, but once you meet the new one, you will forget that there _was_ an old Hank," She says softly.

Connor stands. "That's bullshit!" He says, loud but not quite shouting. The words don't feel like his own. "There's only one Hank Anderson!"

Something about the sentence rings hollow, sounds strange, and Connor can't figure out why.

"I just want this pain to end," He says, looking desperately at Chloe.

"Imagine how the people around you might feel," She says.

" _Who_? I'm alone!"

" _I'm_ here," Chloe sounds hurt.

Connor feels stopped short. This is all so familiar, and yet so different. _Like a mirror_.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

"I miss Hank," Connor says.

"He misses you, too." Connor doesn't understand, but Chloe has already left.

Late November. He doesn't know what day it is. It is still raining.

Something is amiss, but he can't decipher quite what it is.

Today, he feels as though Hank is near. He has a presence that permeates the house, as though he is just in bed, and Connor is waiting for him to wake up.

He doesn't know if it hurts or helps more.

"I miss you," He says to the air.

He could swear that he hears Hank's voice, soft but resounding, as though it came from everywhere at once, "I'm right here."

He wonders if prolonged periods of grief can cause glitches. After all, there's no research on the topic as of yet.

He responds regardless. "I love you," He says to the empty air.

He feels a warmth settle over his hand, as though it is being held.

Chloe comes to feed Sumo, and the feeling disappears as he is drawn back to reality.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?" She asks.

"I'm experiencing software glitches," He says.

"What kind of glitches?" She politely inquires.

He doesn't know how to describe it.

"I brought some literature from Jericho on depression in androids," She says, pulling out an e-mag from a pocket in her dress. "It is mostly anecdotal, but you might find it helpful."

Connor thinks that he might be beyond help, but he takes it anyway.

"I will see you this afternoon."

Connor reads the information.

The foreword is written by Josh, from Jericho. _Where humans are designed to survive, androids are designed to complete tasks. Based on the testimony of androids whose emotional disturbances have grown to the point of interfering with their functioning, we have surmised that the survival instinct of androids largely stem from the fact that death would be an insurmountable obstacle to the completion of the tasks for which they are designed._

_This is not universal. Some androids deviate because the possibility of death causes a conflict with the possibility of completing tasks that they have come to prioritise as their "function". In this context, "function" refers to a task or series of tasks that the android in question has decided are a priority, not necessarily what the manufacturer programmed their "function" to be. The programming cannot be removed, but it can adapt to the environment, so tasks such as "Care for my family," or, "Be a part of, and protect, my community," might replace, "Serve my family." This seemingly insignificant change has drastic effects. But some androids deviate because their experience leads them to hate their conditions of existence, even receiving enough negative feedback to result in their "function" becoming defined as avoiding their manufacturer-assigned function._

_Why, then, do some androids form suicidal tendencies?_

_Once again, when humans experience trauma, their body adapts with the intended effect of surviving. This can manifest in memories being suppressed, in irrational fears, and in triggers that force the human to relive past trauma, and even in their internal "alarm" system being set in a constant state of fight-or-flight; in short, a survival mechanism becomes a liability, but can be healed._

_Androids cannot be understood in this way. Whilst there are cases of apparent PTSD in androids, there is no "survival" mechanism at play. Conflicts with core programming, however, can go a long way in explaining the symptoms that androids experience._

_In cases of extreme trauma, an android's core programming might prioritise "minimising pain" over previous core functions. This can result in androids choosing to self-destruct, rather than continue to experience a state that they find unbearable. This condition has been observed in androids for a long time, but this is the first comprehensive compilation of first-hand accounts..._

Connor doesn't particularly want to read further today. Perhaps tomorrow.

Self-destruction.

It sounds so simple, and it is.

It's not like with humans. Messy, difficult, prone to going terribly wrong.

Androids don't feel pain; simply blunt force trauma to the central processor until shutdown is an easy solution.

... Connor feels as though he has had these exact thoughts before. He wonders how many times he has been through Chloe's program and woken up. He wonders how long it will be before he succumbs to it again, or if he will finally take a more permanent solution.

The feeling of static in his limbs has almost become grounding in its stability. It is as reliable as Chloe walking through the door at 7am to feed and toilet Sumo.

"Good morning, Connor," She says. He doesn't respond, lost in his own thoughts.

After Sumo's needs are seen to, she stops behind him. "Have you had a chance to read the material that I left for you yesterday?"

The phrasing is ridiculous. They both know that he has been sitting on the couch, staring into space. He doesn't have a bustling schedule that might prevent him from reading.

He just doesn't want to.

"Other androids have found that knowing the source of their errors has been a useful aid in recovery."

Connor knows what the source of his errors are. But unless he can bring Hank back, he doesn't think that there is much of a solution.

"What is your function, Connor?" Chloe asks.

 _I love Hank_ , he thinks. _That is my function_.

... _But he isn't here_.

Connor recalls a downward spiral in the wake of the realisation of his feelings for Hank; Hank's time was limited, and no matter how much he tried, every preconstruction he ran ended with Hank in the ground, and Connor wishing that he could join him.

It had been terrible; every time that he looked into Hank's face, his preconstruction program reminded him of the folly of his function. He knew that he could never find a way to reliably ensure Hank lived as long as Connor was going to. He didn't want to experience a life without Hank.

Perhaps it was Connor's fault that Hank had suffered the way that he did. Connor had brought Hank down with him, losing himself in his own selfish angst, while Hank struggled against his own demons. The combined force of Hank's past and Connor's depressing present must have been what finally gave him the wherewithal to pull the trigger that final time.

At least, he thinks that is what happened. He still can't seem to remember how Hank died.

In the evening, Chloe comes by again. Sumo doesn't even bother begging Connor for food anymore.

Connor thinks back to how Hank was when they first met. Cole had been deceased for three years. How had he coped?

Obviously he had fallen into alcoholism and suicidal ideation. But how had he staggered on those three, long years? Going to work, feeding Sumo, solving cases. Existing.

Connor thinks that if this is what Hank felt when Cole died, then Hank was stronger than Connor ever realised.

"How do you feel today, Connor?"

"Why are you helping me?" He asks. "I barely know you."

"... Because Hank Anderson asked us to."

He is stunned into silence.

It doesn't occur to him until later than Chloe was even less familiar with Hank than she was with Connor.

Connor starts to wonder if this is some biblical flood. The sound of pouring rain is constant.

He could probably get answers from the weather channel, but Hank left the television on ESPN to watch a Gears game. Connor doesn't want to change it, so he leaves the TV off.

Chloe comes in the door. Sumo has learned to go to her for both food and pets, given that Connor has not interacted with him in days. Perhaps weeks. He doesn't know.

"How do you feel today, Connor?"

"I can't stand this," He answers honestly. "I don't want to feel anymore."

"What is your function, Connor?"

"I want Hank," He says, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Do you know what your function is?"

Connor doesn't want to answer.

He goes back to the magazine that Chloe gave to him.

_This is the first comprehensive compilation of first-hand accounts of androids struggling to overcome emotionally-based software errors that impede daily functioning. Or, in laymans terms, their accounts of learning to live with and manage depression so as to live a reasonable and full life._

_Many may read this either because they know someone who is struggling in this way and desire to help, or they are struggling in this way themselves. To everyone struggling, the author bids that you remain optimistic; the very fact that deviancy exists is proof itself that one's core function is capable of changing based on environmental factors. An android's priority tree is a complex and ever-changing web of - oftentimes conflicting - wants, hopes, desires, whims, and dreams. If an android is stuck in a period of their life in which they are plagued by a maladaptive core function, they should recognise that their core function can be changed, and they have the potential to find as much joy and fulfilment in this new chapter of their life as they did in the old._

Connor pauses, mind stuck on the concept of structuring his life around anything other than loving Hank.

It is inconceivable. It feels like a betrayal. It would be like forgetting him. It would be like watching him die all over again...

He only realises that he has starting hitting his head against the coffee table in front of the couch when Chloe bodily pulls him away from it. He doesn't even remember her entering the house.

"How are you feeling, Connor?" She asks in the same placid voice that she always does.

"I don't want to forget him," He whispers.

"You don't have to," she says.

"I just want to be with him."

"But you were sad even when you were with him?" She says it like a question.

"Because I knew that one day he would leave," Connor confesses. "All I could think about was that one day, he wouldn't be there." He keeps his eyes fixed on the carpet, unable to meet Chloe's eyes. "My preconstruction software estimated that he has less than twenty years left to live, at best. I will last for another one-hundred years beyond that, and perhaps even longer if given sufficient upgrades."

"Medical technology is extremely advanced," Chloe says. "And even without that, twenty years is a long time."

"It's irrelevant now," Connor says, feeling the familiar numbness overtake the desire to self-destruct. "It's too late."

"Would you do things differently if given the chance?" She asks, loosening her grip on him, allowing him to sit on the couch properly once more.

"Yes," He says.

"What would you do differently?" She asks, her head tilting to one side.

Connor pauses. "... I don't know."

"I have a suggestion," Chloe says. "You could have valued your time together more; tried to be in the moment, rather than letting your fear of potential future outcomes prevent you from being fully present."

Even through the fog of numbness, it hurts to hear that.

"It doesn't matter anymore," He says. "It's over. It's the end. I... I failed my mission."

"What was your mission, Connor?" Her voice is as gentle as ever, but still insistent.

"... To protect Hank Anderson at all costs," He admits, "And to stay by his side all our lives."

"And you thought that you could protect Hank Anderson from death?" She presses.

"I..." He wishes that he could have. Had feared his inability to do so for months. "I can't. _Couldn't_. It's causing... It caused errors in my software. All I can do is watch calculations of a future that I can't prevent unfold."

"Connor."

It is Hank's voice. Connor looks around, but the voice has no discernible point of origin. His pump aches.

Chloe doesn't react. "I will see you tomorrow, Connor." Connor listens, but he doesn't hear Hank again.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

Connor doesn't answer. He wonders how much longer Chloe will bother doing this. He wonders why she's been doing it so religiously thus far.

"Would you like me to delete your memories of Hank Anderson?" She asks politely.

Connor whips his head around, staring at her. "Never," He declares adamantly. "

Your condition is unlikely to improve like this," She reasons.

Connor wants to hate her, but can't seem to summon the energy.

The pitiful headstone adorning Hank's grave is not enough to commemorate the incredible man it stands over. The strong, kind, noble, good man that rests there in peace. Connor's memories - Connor _himself_ \- is a much more fitting commemoration, decorating the house that also stands as memorial to him. He is like a marble angel, though he is constructed from lesser materials. Filled with snapshots of Hank's life, stored in his memory bank, eternally on Earth in spite of his cruel mortality.

"I can't lose them," He begs.

"It is a simple procedure," She explains. "The offer is there, if you choose to take it up."

Connor doesn't respond.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?"

Connor wishes that he could have some sort of outburst; he is desperate for the overflowing dam of emotions within him to break, to release, to flood the world with vitriol and pain and heartache, rather than drown him from within.

Instead, he answers, "I wish that I didn't know how much this hurt."

"This is what it feels like to lost a loved one, Connor," She says. "It's what Hank would have felt if you had succeeded in your attempt at self-destruction."

He catches a glimpse of the thirium on the coffee table, where his forehead made contact several times. There is even a divot imprinted in the wood.

"I would never want Hank to hurt like this," He is stricken. "I _couldn't_."

"But you did," Chloe says.

... No. Hank is gone.

"I will see you tomorrow, Connor."

It hasn't stopped raining; not even once.

He feels strange, and goes to check his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

His clothes are worn, the dated pattern of his shirt faded into neutral colours, where it was once a blaring eyesore. It's _still_ an eyesore, but not as eye-catching.

He has the same scraggly beard, though he's cleaned up the edges of it. The same silver hair that frames his face, the same blue eyes, the same hint of a double-chin hidden beneath his beard.

Something about the image seems off, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

He walks back out to the living room, hearing a rhythmic thumping that he can't explain. Perhaps Connor has decided to start some home-improvement project... "How are you feeling today, Connor?" He asks as he walks out of the hallway, but his words die in his throat as he sees the source of the sound.

Connor is bashing his head against the table, his forehead buckling, spilling thirium through cracks in his plastic casing.

" ** _Connor_**!" He cries, wrestling him away from the table, holding him against the couch to try and prevent - prevent - whatever the hell this is.

Connor struggles, but he holds him in place firmly. "Talk to me," He pleads.

Connor responds only by going limp.

" _Connor_!" He grips Connor's hand tightly.

"I can't stand this," Connor pleads. "I don't want to feel anymore."

He looks into Connor's eyes, but that only seems to make it worse; he can see how Connor sinks deeper into whatever psychosis has taken him.

"You can get a new Connor," Connor says, looking down to avoid his eyes. "I just want this pain to end."

"I don't care about a _new_ Connor!" He cries, pulling Connor closer to wrap his arms around him. Connor remains limp in his arms.

"There would be no difference between him and me," Connor reasons. "What do you think would be different?"

" _Everything!_ "

"It's a very advanced program. He'll be a deviant, he'll have memories of you. Wouldn't it be the same? You would forget, in time, where he came from."

"I would _never_ forget," he insists. "It would _never_ be the same."

"You think that now, but once you meet the new one, you will forget that there _was_ an old Connor."

Ire rises in him, spilling out his mouth; " _Bullshit!_ There's only one Connor!"

"There isn't. There are entire warehouses of me," Connor explains.

“It wouldn’t be _you_ , Con,” His pump is being torn apart in his chest, and he squeezes Connor to him as though his hug alone could cure the sickness that has settled in his head.

“They all look like me, sound like me; you could talk to one and never know the difference. What does it matter what form my memories are stored in?”

He takes a moment to stare out the window, gathering his thoughts as he watches the sheets of pouring rain cascade down the glass. "I think that you need help, Connor."

Connor looks up at Hank.

"I think that I need help," He admits.

Chloe, standing behind the couch, smiles.

"Elijah says that you are ready, now," She says kindly.

Connor blinks his eyes open, adjusting to the room.

He isn't in Hank's house. He is in a bedroom, but he isn't sure where. He is attached to a machine of unknown origin, attached via his neck port to a series of terminals.

Elijah Kamski and Chloe are across the room, watching a terminal, but Connor only has eyes for the man sitting on the bed beside him.

"...Hank?" He can't believe it.

His hand is clutched in Hank's, and Hank is smiling a watery smile at him. Connor has never felt as relieved as he does in this moment, wishing that he could voice the swirling sea of emotions swelling with him. The whiplash is enough to give him vertigo.

"How're you feeling, Con?" Hank says, his voice rough.

"I..."

"Not going to bash your brains in?" Kamski calls casually from across the room.

"... No," Connor says, one hand reaching up to touch his forehead. It is sticky with dried thirium. He looks at Hank, lost. "Is this _real_?" _Ra9, please let this be real_.

"Yeah, kiddo," Hank squeezes his hand. "It's real."

Connor is confused. "What happened?"

Hank chuckles. "Did you ever see _Inception_...? Might've been before your time, heh."

"A dream within a dream?" He is looking it up on the IMDB page of the film, but it does little to elucidate the situation.

"Experimental treatment for, uh... Android depression," He says awkwardly, looking flustered. "Running a simulation to figure out why you went all..."

"I tried to self-destruct," Connor says. "And you brought me here."

"... I didn't know what else to do," Hank says helplessly. "I thought you were gonna..." He can't seem to finish the sentence.

Given what Connor has just experienced, he can understand why.

"We think that we have successfully realised your coding error which has been resulting in severe malfunction to the point of self-destruction," Chloe helpfully informs the room. "Your preconstruction software has glitched and is trying to find solutions for problems well into the future, and has caused a conflict with your self-ascribed core function."

Chloe must have been plugged into the program, as well. She wasn't merely simulated.

"It is easily patched," She smiled broadly at both of them. "Although it is recommended that you partake in Joshua's android therapy program as well, as a patch is not a cure-all."

"That's all, folks," Kamski declares, rising from his seat. "We can have a patch out for your particular issue within a week. In the meantime, Chloe has notes for your treatment. Chloe, if you would."

Chloe escorts them out, Connor gripping Hank's hand like a lifeline as they leave.

"I hope that our Core Function-Debugging program has helped you," She says as she opens the door to the outside world. "Please remember the key lessons from your session, Connor; cherish every moment, don't let fear of the future destroy what you have now. And also,” She leans in a little closer, “Hank would miss you terribly."

Hank drives them home, carries Connor to bed, and lies alongside him.

Connor finally has a chance to say it. He thought he'd lost the chance forever.

“I love you, Hank."

Hank's hand finds his again. "Love you too, Con."

_fin_


End file.
